Several lines in the second German version are evidently borrowed from the Ladybird or Maychafer rhyme which has been p.r.o.nounced a relic of Freya worship. Here the question arises, is not the snail song also derived from some ancient myth? Count Gubernatis, in his valuable work on _Zoological Mythology_ (vol. ii. p. 75), dismisses the matter with the remark that "the snail of superst.i.tion is demoniacal." This, however, is no proof that he always bore so suspicious a character, since all the accessories to past beliefs got into bad odour on the establishment of Christianity, unless saved by dedication to the Virgin or other saints. I ventured to suggest, in the _Archivio per lo studio delle tradizioni popolari_ (the Italian Folklore Journal), that the snail who is so constantly urged to come forth from his dark house, might in some way prefigure the dawn. Horns have been from all antiquity a.s.sociated with rays of light. But to write of "Nature Myths in Nursery Rhymes" is to enter on such dangerous ground that I will pursue the argument no further.

V.

Children of older years have preserved the very important cla.s.s of songs distinguished as singing-games. Everyone knows the famous _ronde_ of the Pont d'Avignon:

Sur le Pont d'Avignon, Tout le monde y danse, danse, Sur le Pont d'Avignon Tout le monde y danse en rond.

Les beaux messieurs font comme ca, Sur le Pont d'Avignon, Tout le monde y danse, danse, Sur le Pont d'Avignon, Tout le monde y danse en rond.

After the "messieurs" who bow, come the "demoiselles" who curtsey; the workwomen who sew, the carpenters who saw wood, the washerwomen who wash linen, and a host of other folks intent on their different callings. The song is an apt demonstration of what Paul de Saint-Victor called "cet instinct inne de l'imitation qui fait similer a l'enfant les actions viriles"[6]--in which instinct lies the germ of the theatre. The origin of all spectacles was a performance intended to amuse the performers, and it cannot be doubted that the singing-game throws much light on the beginnings of scenic representations.

_Rondes_ frequently deal with love and marriage, and these, from internal evidence, cannot have been composed by or for the young people who now play them. There are in fact some which would be better forgotten by everybody, but the majority are innocent little dramas, of which it may truly be said, _Honi soit qui mal y pense_. It should be noticed that a distinctly satirical vein runs through many of these games, as in the "Gentleman from Spain,"--played in one form or another all over Europe and the United States,--in which the suitor would first give any money to get his bride, and then any money to get rid of her. Or the Swedish _Lek_ (the name given in Sweden to the singing-game), in which the companions of a young girl put her sentiments to the test of telling her that father, mother, sisters, brothers, are dead--all of which she hears with perfect equanimity--but when they add that her betrothed is also dead, she falls back fainting. Then all her kindred are resuscitated without the effect of reviving her, but when she hears that her lover is alive and well, she springs up and gives chase to her tormentors.

To my mind there is no more remarkable specimen of the singing game than _Jenny Jones_--through which prosaic t.i.tle we can discern the tender _Jeanne ma joie_ that formed the base of it. The Scotch still say _Jenny Jo_, "Jo" being with them a term of endearment (_e.g._, "John Anderson, my Jo!"). The following variant of the game I took down from word of mouth at Bocking in Ess.e.x:--

We've come to see Jenny Jones, Jenny Jones, (_repeat_).

How is she now?

Jenny is washing, washing, washing, Jenny is washing, you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones.

How is she now?

Jenny is folding, folding, folding, You can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones.

How is she now?

Jenny is starching, starching, starching, Jenny is starching, you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones.

How is she now?

Jenny is ironing, ironing, ironing, Jenny is ironing, you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones.

How is she now?

Jenny is ill, ill, ill, Jenny is ill, so you can't see her now.

We've come to see Jenny Jones.

How is she now?

(_Mournfully._) Jenny is dead, dead, dead, Jenny is dead, you can't see her now.

May we come to the funeral?

Yes.

May we come in red?

Red is for soldiers; you can't come in red.

May we come in blue?

Blue is for sailors; you can't come in blue.

May we come in white?

White is for weddings; you can't come in white.

May we come in black?

Black is for funerals, so you can come in that.

Jenny is then carried and buried (_i.e._, laid on the gra.s.s) by two of the girls, while the rest follow as mourners, uttering a low, prolonged wail.

Perhaps the earliest acted tragedy--a tragedy acted before aeschylus lived--was something like this. Anyhow, it may remind us of how early a taste for the tragic is developed, if not in the life of mankind at all events in the life of man. "What is the reason," asks St Augustine, "that men wish to be moved by the sight of tragic and painful things, which, nevertheless, they do not wish to undergo themselves? For the spectators (at a play) desire to feel grieved, and this grief is their joy: whence comes it unless from some strange spiritual malady?"[7]

Dr Pitre describes this Sicilian game: A child lies down, pretending to be dead. His companions stand round and sing a dirge in the most dolorous tones. Now and then, one of them runs up to him and lifts an arm or a leg, afterwards letting it fall, to make sure that he is quite dead. Satisfied on this point, they prepare to bury him, but before doing so, they nearly stifle him with parting kisses. Tired, at last, of his painful position, the would-be dead boy jumps up and gets on the back of the most aggressive of his playmates, who is bound to carry him off the scene.

To play at funerals was probably a very ancient amus.e.m.e.nt. No doubt some such game as the above is alluded to in the text, "... children sitting in the markets and calling unto their fellows and saying, We have piped unto you and ye have not danced, we have mourned unto you and ye have not lamented."

VI.

Mysteries and Miracle Plays must not be forgotten, though in their origin they were not a plant of strictly popular growth. Some writers consider that they were inst.i.tuted by ecclesiastics as rivals to the lay or pagan plays which were still in great favour in the first Christian centuries. Others think with Dr Hermann Ulrici,[8] that they grew naturally out of the increasingly pictorial celebration of the early Greek liturgy,--painted scenes developing into _tableaux vivants_, and these into acted and spoken interludes. It is certain that they were started by the clergy, who at first were the sole actors, a.s.suming characters of both s.e.xes. As time wore on, something more lively was desired, and clowns and buffoons were accordingly introduced. They appeared in the Innsbruck Play of the fourteenth century; and again in 1427, in the performances given at Metz, while the serious parts were acted by ecclesiastics, the lighter, or comic parts, were represented by laymen. These performances were held in a theatre constructed for the purpose, but mysteries were often played in the churches themselves, nor is the practice wholly abandoned.

A Nativity play is performed in the churches of Upper Gascony on Christmas Eve, of which the subjoined account will, perhaps, be read with interest:--

In the middle of the Midnight Ma.s.s, just when the priest has finished reading the gospel, Joseph and Mary enter the nave, the former clad in the garb of a village carpenter with his tools slung across his shoulder, the latter dressed in a robe of spotless white. The people divide so as to let them pa.s.s up the church, and they look about for a night's lodging. In one part of the church the stable of Bethlehem is represented behind a framework of greenery; here they take up their position, and presently a cradle is placed beside them which contains the image of a babe. The voice of an angel from on high now proclaims the birth of the Infant Saviour, and calls on the shepherds to draw near to the sound of glad music. The way in which this bit of theatrical "business" is managed, is by a child in a surplice, with wings fastened to his shoulders, being drawn up to the ceiling seated on a chair, which is supported by ropes on a pulley. The shepherds, real shepherds in white, homespun capes, with long crooks decked with ribbons, are placed on a raised dais, which stands for the mountain. They wake up when they hear the angel's song, and one of them exclaims:

Diou dou ceou, quino vero vouts!

Un anjou mous parlo, pastous; Biste quieten noste troupet!

Mes que dit l'anjou, si vous plait?

(Heavens! with how sweet a voice The angel calls us to rejoice; Quick leave your flocks: but tell me, pray, What doth the heavenly angel say?)

The angel replies in French:

Rise, shepherd, nor delay, 'Tis G.o.d who summons thee, Hasten with zeal away Thy Saviour's self to see.

The Lord of Hosts hath shown That since this glorious birth, War shall be no more known, But peace shall reign on earth.

The shepherds, however, are not very willing to be disturbed: "Let me sleep! Let me sleep!" says one of them, and another goes so far as to threaten to drive away the angel if he does not let them alone. "Come and render homage to the new-born babe," sings the angel, "and cease to complain of your happy lot." They answer:

A happy lot We never yet possest, A happy lot For us poor shepherd folk existeth not; Then wherefore utter the strange jest That by an infant's birth we shall be blest With happy lot?

The shepherds begin to bestir themselves. One says that he feels overcome with fear at the sound of so much noise and commotion. The angel responds, "Come without fear; do not hesitate, but redouble your speed. It is in this village, in a poor place, near yonder wood, that you may see the Infant Lord." Another of the shepherds, who seems to have only just woke up, inquires:

What do you say?

This to believe what soul is able; What do you say?

Where do these shepherds speed away?

To see their G.o.d within a stable: This surely seems an idle fable; What do you say?